Crossing a busy street, I got trapped in the center lane by the rush of cars on both sides of me. I waited in the middle, looking for opportunities to complete my passage. One car slowed, stopped; a man waved at me, inviting me to cross the street. Surprised, I waved thanks, then did an amazing thing: I hopped two steps, getting good air on the first, less on the second, then broke into a brisk, high-stepping walk. When I reached the curb, I thought, “Wow: I almost ran.”
When I was young, I leapt and gamboled and ran, as do all the young. I ran for the pure joy of it; I raced the streetcar, I raced my friends, I raced against the passage of time, though I was too young to know it. As the decades passed, the desire and the need to run grew less. In my 30s, her mother and I dragged our 6-year-old daughter from her home in California to another in Indiana, and in that new neighborhood, the young boys learned to knock on our door, asking my bride, “Can CJ come out and play?” And I did, and one day, in a game of tackle football with the burly teens, I ran through them, embarrassed them, and made them stop my running, which they did by breaking my leg. I recovered, and my last great memory of running was of my break-away layup during a game of 2-on-2 with my two nephews, former high school basketball stars.
But now the days grow short, and I’m in the autumn of my years; I don’t run. I haven’t in many years, except for short bursts in the living rooms, hallways and bedrooms where giggling grandchildren play. I am fond of saying that, should the need arise and a grandbeauty is in danger, I can run. I’ve been lucky in the lack of a need to validate that boast, for the truth is, I don’t know whether or not I can run. My primary form of exercise is walking, something that I do almost daily, but at a relatively leisurely pace. On the Pennsy Trail I see runners chugging, shuffling and bounding past me. Some “runners” are moving so slowly that I wonder if the effort to move the arms and legs in a “running” way is the main objective of the exercise. The health tracker on my phone counts my steps and indicates the mile(s) I’ve walked and how many flights of stairs I’ve climbed. (I knock off two flights during my exit and entrance into my apartment, so I feel kinda “cheaty” about flights.) But my doctor, who has my adoration (as I’ve written) says that I am healthy, and she does not need to see me, often. So, I do what I have been doing, and walk.
But I remember running: I remember when my thigh muscles — slack now, but once thick and strong — would bunch and growl beneath my skin, and propel me across the ground. I remember running just because I could, and the “Fleetfoot Delivery Service” my friend and I started in our building, running to and from the store for other residents. The great joy of ground-flight is embedded within me, and sometimes, in my dreams, I still run.
I no longer need the gratuitous demonstration of strength, speed and agility; I am content to walk. But I am comfortable with my limitations, but also in the knowledge that, if the need should arise, if, say, my newest granddaughter should toddle into some danger, if necessary, I can hop along.